


when there's nothing left to burn

by paxlux



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, thieves in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some days when the world isn’t quite right; it hangs a little crooked on its hinges, swaying until it slams shut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when there's nothing left to burn

**Author's Note:**

> I possibly bent some rules, so check your totem.

[ _When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire._ ]

 

There are some days when the world isn’t quite right. It hangs a little crooked on its hinges, swaying until it slams shut and Arthur stops in the middle of the sidewalk with a jerk. Someone bumps into him, a hard shoulder to his, hey watch where you’re walking you idiot.

Arthur’s fingers twitch for a gun, but he’s in public and he doesn’t make a habit of shooting civilians, regardless of the fact he’s possibly having a waking dream and would happily pull the trigger a few times.

A huge clothing store window behind him, so he steps to it, leaning against it, staring at the mannequins with their flashy clothes, then he stares at the sky, outlined by skyscrapers, as if set out on grid paper.

He’s not losing his mind, he knows that much; sometimes, he thinks it’s a side effect of the somnacin, like an acid flashback or how he has trouble dreaming now. He naturally dreams one or two times a week, but they aren’t like they used to be, almost linear and highly detailed, vibrant and intense.

Now his dreams are a mass of color, like a Pollock, strings of dream thrown everywhere and behind the strokes, he can see the narrative proper, happening without him.

Arthur has a moment of vertigo, fingertips gripping the window, and heights have never bothered him, one reason why the military loved him so much, but dreamshare has given him new opportunities, one of them being vertigo when he has both feet on the solid earth with the smell of exhaust swirling around him, the honking of taxis, people murmuring.

He remembers how he got here, he can feel his totem digging into his thigh, he knows it landed on six over and over again this morning.

This world isn’t really here. Even when he’s in reality.

He could blow it sky-high.

His phone buzzes and the feeling in his pocket brings him zooming back here on the ground with the glass cold against his palm as he stares at the sky.

 _You in town_

Eames.

It’s a compulsion, he always responds to Eames, even when he’s angry, he makes those messages very clear in a cold steel way.

 _I want to wake up in a city that doesn’t sleep,_ he replies.

People shouting on the street, oy asshole what’re you blind or somethin’, who’re you a fuckin’ seein’-eye dog, then Arthur hears it, that voice, Eames once said, I know you hear my dulcet tones in your sleep, pet, and Arthur said, Oh funny, Mr. Eames, so very fucking funny.

That voice singing ‘New York, New York,’ getting closer and closer until it’s crooning in Arthur’s ear.

“Hello, Arthur.”

Eames is grinning, hands in his pockets, some sort of faint houndstooth-patterned jacket and a plum button-down, Arthur knows he’s not losing his mind now, so he says, “Did you steal those clothes from a bunch of poor, defenseless mannequins. I’ve never seen anything so garish and ill-fitted—“

“Yes, yes, it’s lovely to hear how happy you are to see me, felicitations and all that, let’s skip to the part where we have lunch.”

The cognitive dissonance is slow to leave Arthur though Eames is here; out of a city of over eight million people, Eames found him, Arthur can smell his cologne and a hint of cigarettes.

Eames knows. He’s the only person Arthur would trust to figure it out, understand and then not smother him with good intentions. Eames instead will grace him with that crooked grin and the way he claims Arthur’s space as his own.

“A deli. For you, Arthur darling, a deli, a proper one that makes its own pickles and cheese,” he says, accent thickening, and Arthur pushes away from the window. Eames extends a hand, like he might help, as if Arthur isn’t sure of his surroundings, but then his blue eyes flash and he turns it into a wave, a sort of _after you_.

Sometimes, Arthur is pathetically grateful for Eames and he will die, has died, many times over before he will tell him.

“Lay on, Macduff,” Arthur says, just to be annoying.

“Stop attempting to misappropriate my culture.”

“You have no culture.”

Eames winks, as if being thought crude and vulgar is the best way to _exist_ , then he whistles, sharp and clear, a taxi almost jumping the curb to stop.

After Eames gives an address, he starts a steady stream of mundanity, “I was in Prague on a mindless job, truly, you would have been so bored, the shooting would’ve started fairly early. I was a gorgeous, winsome girl—“

“European Barbie Eames?”

“Shut it, I was a gorgeous, winsome girl with daddy issues and a weakness for cuddling up to the bar, waiting for a man to come sweep me off my feet and give me the combination to his weapons manufacturing information, all for a delightful kiss on the cheek.”

“So, you were being you, actually, is what you’re trying to tell me.”

“We can’t all be living legends like you, Arthur.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and Eames tries to fiddle with his fingers, tickle his palm, so he makes a fist to stop him. “That’s all it takes? A kiss from a drunk party girl?”

The expression on Eames’s face is downright wicked and Arthur tries not to smile. “Of course, love, when _I’m_ the drunk party girl.”

“Your prolonged insanity amazes me.”

“Prague is not beautiful this time of year, anyway,” Eames continues with a smirk. “Then I felt the call of the States, you know, that bizarre mixture of look-at-me and light pollution, you Americans and your bloody self-esteem,” and he continues talking, hand descending onto Arthur’s thigh as he makes a random observation.

The world isn’t really there, but Eames is. Arthur brushes Eames’s hand away, but then it’s back five minutes later, then gone, back, gone, back, the forger always in motion, hand back warm and when it’s gone again, Arthur feels the lack of heat.

“I’ve been here. In the city,” Arthur says, coming out of him like a confession and Eames looks at him with a crooked smile. “Doing nothing. For three weeks.”

“I don’t believe you ‘do nothing.’ Boredom leads to bullet holes. So what have you _really_ been doing.”

He’s really been wandering the city, lining out the architecture in his head. He thinks about raising and lowering the buildings with just his willpower.

It feels like he’s waiting.

So he shrugs. Eames tries to tickle his palm again because he’s here with Arthur and because he’s Eames. Arthur lets him until he can capture him, snapping around his hand.

“I will break your fingers.”

Digging blunt nails into Arthur’s skin, Eames sings under his breath, “If I can make it there, I can make it anywhere,” and when Arthur lets go, he hums the rest of the cab ride. His knee bumps Arthur’s along the way and Eames is the only thing that’s real in reality.

Arthur stares out at the smears of New York, thinking, I could build a better maze than this.

-

The chandelier is giving off a hundred points of light.

He spits blood because being knifed in the chest is no day at the races, it hurts, every breath is gasoline waiting for a match. He leaves a red handprint on the window as he tilts against it and he hopes Arthur admires his blood art.

"Eames," Arthur says, urgent, fingers on the handle of the knife, like he can feel how deep the blade goes in between Eames’s ribs. It might be scraping his spine.

It's possible he's lost his voice, throat burned out of him, so Eames mouths, _Arthur_.

Dark eyes narrow, staring at his mouth, so Eames shapes the name again, _Arthur_. Then he smiles since he has Arthur’s attention right where he wants it.

"You," Arthur says with a shake of his head, pulling Eames to him, and somewhere, an explosion goes off, rattling the chandelier overhead, a lamp falling off an ornate French end table with a loud shatter. A portrait tips over face-first, hitting the lush carpet.

Eames can't breathe, but he can smile enough to beat Arthur and some days, that's more important.

Then Arthur's pressing the nose of the Glock to Eames's temple.

Eames says, _No_ , the gun sliding into his hair because fuck the pain and dizzying lack of oxygen, he wants to see the explosions, he wants to watch this world fall apart before he dies or the timer stops; it’s usually a matter of death or the music kicking in, whichever comes first, sometimes it’s a glorious thing, his last breath coming on a swell of music, the dawning of a French syllable.

He wants to watch this world fall apart and the gun disappears; Arthur understands, Arthur knows, Eames trusts him to get it.

The fingers on the knife tighten and push the blade in a little deeper, like a stopper to cap the blood flow, and Eames grunts, but Arthur’s grip on his shoulder keeps him upright.

They stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows, the chandelier throwing its light as reflections off-set against the night of the city below them, not quite New York, not quite Chicago, an amalgamation good enough for Gotham City perhaps. Fires rage down in the streets, projections swarming, and the two of them aren’t very high in this building, the elevator keeps dinging down the hall with projections catching up to the virus of awareness.

This isn’t the real world and Eames likes to destroy it as much as he can, though he’d rather do it without the painful drag in his chest, the steel in his body and his blood dripping onto the carpet, a light gray, suitable for Arthur, Ariadne must have colored it that as a concession.

He’d rather destroy something in the real world, get his blood on Arthur in the real world, as if that would make it any more _real_.

Arthur’s stroking his skin where the blade has slid into him, and Eames says, _Darling_ , but Arthur isn’t looking at him, can’t see his mouth move.

Another explosion, the floor swaying under their feet, so Eames repeats himself, _darling_ , and grabs Arthur by the wrist, where Arthur’s hand is on his chest; he smoothes blood over the shirt cuff, pulling until he can smear more on the collar, buttons, the silky shine of Arthur’s waistcoat.

He kisses Arthur, insufferable bastard, because he's been knifed in the chest and Arthur's letting him lean into him so they can watch everything fall.

Arthur jerks away, careful of the knife, frowning with his red-slick lips. "Bastard." He wipes at the shared blood, streaking it across his face before putting the Glock against Eames’s skin again and Eames grins, feels a trickle run down his chin.

"Coffee. Milk, no sugar,” Arthur says, “and none of that hazelnut shit.”

 _Warm_ , Eames mouths.

Arthur looks dangerous, like he’s eaten something raw. "Yeah, it better still be warm by the time I—"

The chandelier shudders and there’s a crack, silence, then the chandelier smashes down, light and glass flying everywhere, and Arthur pulls the trigger.

When Eames wakes, he’s already rubbing at his chest and Yusuf says, “What’re you doing back.”

“Knife,” Eames says. He adds it to his mental list of Ways He’s Died, though this one isn’t close to imaginative, very disappointing, and technically, Arthur shot him in the head, but still, the knife would’ve done its job eventually.

Removing the cannula, he exhales. No gasoline, no fire. Arthur and Ariadne are still under.

“Your compound made everyone bloody agitated,” he says to Yusuf, tapping fingers on the table the chemist has appropriated. “The projections were paranoid. Now, a coffee?”

Yusuf stares up at him, blinks. “Paranoid? That’s how you—“

“Knife. To the chest. It hurt, Yusuf, before Arthur shot me, thank you for asking.”

“Fantastic,” Yusuf mumbles sarcastically. “No, no coffee.” He scrambles for some papers, pencil in his hand with another pencil tucked behind his ear. “Actually, yes, coffee. Big. Black. Strong, very strong.”

“Just like your men?” Eames says, but Yusuf waves him away, diving into his calculations and Eames is briefly lost. He realizes he’s waiting for Arthur’s disapproval, the little huff of exasperation over the bad joke, the eye roll that isn’t a full eye roll, like just the suggestion is enough to put Eames in his place.

Arthur is on the lawnchair, one knee bent out, a palm on his waistcoat as if he’s been tugging at wrinkles. Or maybe wiping at Eames’s blood.

Eames buttons his jacket and heads for the door. Milk. No sugar. None of that hazelnut shit.

He swears he saw Arthur smile, a dimple, before he felt the bullet.

An hour later, Ariadne clears off a nearby table, a clatter like the doomed chandelier.

He hands Arthur his coffee, watching as Arthur tastes it and he thinks, Let’s go destroy something new.

-

Once upon a time, Eames said, Arthur, we really must discuss this disturbing trend you have of killing me in dreams.

No, Eames, we don’t need to discuss it. It should be obvious.

Is it? Eames raised an eyebrow, the one with the scar slashing through it, the one Arthur secretly thinks makes Eames look even more disreputable. Are you saying I _deserve_ it?

Imagine that, Arthur said wryly.

He slid his hands to Eames’s throat, the forger’s palms catching Arthur’s hips, as if they were slow dancing, fingers slipping into Arthur’s pocket.

Then Arthur broke Eames’s neck.

The next once upon a time, Arthur was bleeding from the wrists, not deep enough to bleed out but fast enough to make an absolute horror show of himself, blood dripping everywhere as he moved, down his trousers in spatters, splashed over his white shirt and onto Eames’s paisley, making the shapes stand out stark.

Eames pinned him against a pillar and yanked the tie from around his neck, Arthur gasping at the movement, and with a heavy-toothed knife, he slashed the tie in two, binding Arthur’s wrists.

Holding the guns was a slippery ordeal and his hands were still slick until Eames tugged off his own jacket, said, Here, clean your hands on this.

With Eames blocking him, firing at the mark’s militant projections fitted out like SWAT, Arthur wiped his blood onto the jacket, rough wool, silk lining, red turning the dark teal into something blackened.

He said, They’re coming from the—

Then a bullet hit him in the neck and his hands were bloody again and the last thing he saw was Eames furious, eyes lit murderous, teeth bared, then Eames shot him in the head.

Eames, I think we need to talk about quicker ways to dispatch each other.

Quicker?

Better.

Bullets are elegant, Eames said, swirling his tea in his cup.

But they’re boring, Arthur thought, and Eames said, But bullets are rather dull.

Knives, Arthur said.

Rocket launcher, Eames said, gleeful.

Broken neck.

Terminal velocity.

You just like falling off buildings, Arthur accused and Eames licked his lips, grinned.

Who doesn’t? Besides you, because you don’t want to ruin your suit. It’s a _suit_ in a _dream_ , darling, it’s not—

It’s _my_ suit and—

Ariadne wandered in to the warehouse, said, Why not an explosion.

Having chunks of masonry fall on you isn’t exactly fun— Eames began.

Or practical, Arthur finished. You’ve never experienced it, but suffocation is uncomfortable and annoying.

Eames rolled his eyes as Ariadne settled on the edge of a desk.

If you’re at the epicenter of the explosion though…fire always works, she said. And I think I should be _concerned_ that you’re discussing how to _murder_ each other.

You must understand, Ariadne, this is as close to dating as I will get with Arthur, Eames said, staring forlornly at his tea. He doesn’t love me, he only loves to kill me.

Arthur waited, he knew Eames would milk it, act out the brokenhearted lover he isn’t since he had an audience.

How else will I ever know that Arthur thinks about me? I’ll take every little piece of him I can get. Even his bullets.

Oh, fuck, Arthur said, irritated as Eames fluttered his eyelashes and Ariadne snorted.

How romantic. Next time, dream up a grave and put flowers on it, she said, sneakers scuffing on the old floor. Don’t mind me, continue planning your dream date.

Excellent pun, Eames said, school is doing wonders for you.

Arthur said, Really, ‘dream date’?

She shrugged, smiling, before she wandered off to find Yusuf.

Eames looked thoughtful.

Arthur was worried.

What, Eames.

Do you want to set me on fire next time?

No, Arthur said. _No._ I’ll just break all your bones, then shoot you.

Ah, yes, much more your style.

-

He feels jittery. They’ve finished a job, no one else knows they’re here in Boston, Ariadne’s gone back to Paris, Yusuf to parts unknown, so Eames isn’t leaving town until the next morning.

With the side of his fist, he pushes the window open, this rattle-y rented flat with its lack of heating and empty room echoes; the window opens to let in the smell of rain as Eames lights a cigarette.

“May I bum one?”

Arthur, with his blend of correct grammar and slang. Eames turns to give him the cigarette from his mouth, but he almost drops it, almost burns his fingers.

Arthur’s wearing torn jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the graphic across his chest peeling and faded and there’s a rip at the neck, spreading along the shoulder seam. His hair’s a mess, soft and black tumbling everywhere, over his eyes, he might be half-asleep.

He looks so sodding young. He takes the cigarette from Eames, closing his eyes as he takes a drag.

“You sure you’re old enough to smoke?”

Arthur grunts, reaches across Eames to the pack of cigarettes and Eames doesn’t move, watching, smelling the sleepy scent of Arthur. The point man doesn’t brush his hair away, just lights the cigarette off the glowing tip of the one between his lips, then passes it over to Eames. White smoke curls out of his mouth.

He only smokes between jobs and doesn’t drink while working all that often, unless the situation calls for it, as if vice will only muddle his mind. Eames knows, he’s tried countless times to haul Arthur out to a bar wherever they are and it doesn’t work, if Arthur goes, he’ll drink ginger ale or tonic and juice.

Times like these though, Arthur will smoke and Arthur will drink and Eames struggles his damnedest because he won’t take advantage of Arthur like this, he won’t, he hasn’t been carrying a torch for Arthur for _years_ only to douse all hope now because he does something utterly fucking brainless.

They stare at the rain, smoking, Eames taking a long pull to gather the smoke and hold it, pushing it out slow and he sees Arthur follow the movement with his gaze, but his mind is elsewhere, Eames can tell.

He’ll smoke down to the filter, ready to singe his fingertips, Eames likes the old-fashioned cigarettes without the damn filter, but it’s hard to get the good killing kind these days, he’ll take what he can get, then Arthur is reaching for another, chain-smoking in an absentminded way.

Eames wants to take the cigarette from him and breathe smoke into his mouth and kiss him, sleep and nicotine and the faint hint of adrenaline, maybe Arthur’s dreams, maybe the rain.

Arthur is running. Arthur is always running. He looks so still, frowning in concentration, but Eames knows he’s fast, reflexes impressive outside of his military training, both in reality and in the dream.

But Arthur is running. Mostly from Eames.

It’s fucking infuriating.

He wants to pack them up, wipe everything clean in this god-forsaken flat, then burn it to the ground, get rid of their existence from this place and go to a new one, start all over, playing with the box of matches in his pocket with the name of some casino stamped on it, ready to burn the next place too, all so he can run with Arthur.

“How long are you here?” he asks around the cigarette, not even using his hands anymore to smoke; he feels loose and strung-out, lets it hang nonchalant on him.

“A few days. I haven’t been here in years. Figured I’d take a breather, then shove off,” Arthur says, tracing a raindrop down the glass. “There might be something in Copenhagen.”

“Dress warm,” Eames says and Arthur smirks.

“No, I think I’ll go naked.”

Delicious imagery, and Eames sparks a little back to life. “I’d say good for you, I’d love to join you for that, but the cold…wouldn’t want it to freeze off parts of you, love.”

“Like my toes.”

“Yes, exactly, just what I was picturing. Your toes.”

Arthur sighs, flicks his cigarette out the window and says, “I’m blaming this on exhaustion.”

“What—“

Then he’s stolen Eames’s cigarette, those bloody fast reflexes, and he’s kissing Eames, just as Eames needs to release the smoke he’s almost choked on, but he kisses Arthur, breathing smoke between them, a burn in his lungs as if they’re paper, and it doesn’t matter if Arthur’s running, Eames will chase him, setting fires if he has to, if that’s the only way Arthur will understand.

Eames pours a little of his hope into the kiss, his intent, and Arthur’s teeth brush against his lips.

When Arthur lets go, he still has Eames’s cigarette between his fingers and his eyes are so dark and Eames stutters unhappily, “My flight’s in the morning.”

Those dark eyes go dull, Arthur’s swollen mouth frowning. Too late, Eames has ruined it because he doesn’t want to fuck and run, he might be afraid of Arthur, that Arthur will smash him to pieces and find his heart in the debris because Arthur is a thief like him, Arthur is a bloody good thief, but Eames doesn’t want a one-night stand even if he’s a big fan of the practice.

This is _Arthur_ and everyone else is forgettable.

Arthur isn’t. Arthur never will be.

“Fine, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, standing the cigarette on the windowsill, balanced upright on its filter, ash toppling in a fine dust. He steps away, crosses his arms to close himself off and desperation rises in a sick, slow wave in Eames.

“Copenhagen,” he says as he pushes the cigarette out into the rain. “Extraction?”

“What else. Shouldn’t be too hard. Petty secrets and ambassadors’ secretaries. Embassies.”

“Need a thief?”

Arthur smiles, just a brief one, but it’s fake. “There are plenty of good thieves.”

Eames rubs at the back of his neck and decides to fall off a building because it’s his favorite way to die. He snags Arthur’s belt loops, linking them. Arthur struggles a little and Eames doesn’t let go.

“But I’m the best, darling. So are you. We’d be unstoppable.”

“You’d go to Copenhagen.” Arthur leans back, letting Eames hold his weight without having to touch him.

“Yes. Someone has to watch your toes.”

“Unstoppable, huh? You just want to take over the world.”

“And what’s wrong with that? The world would be better off. Everyone needs goals.”

This is delicate, this is Arthur who just kissed him without a second thought and Eames kissed back only to say something completely stupid, like he predicted he would.

“In for a penny…” he says, light and teasing.

Arthur watches him, as if he’s seriously taking Eames into account and Eames lets Arthur see his apology, see his little flame of hope, he says, “Copenhagen.” Arthur sighs. He kisses Arthur on the cheek, runs his nose briefly along Arthur’s jaw, vibration running through him as Arthur says, “I’m running this extraction, so you’ll have to follow my rules.”

“ _Rules_ ,” Eames groans in mock exasperation, exaggerating it, “no offense meant, Arthur, but fuck your bloody rules.”

“Rules, Eames,” Arthur says with a sideways smile.

“They are made to be broken, I believe.”

He sees he isn’t yet forgiven for his quick thoughtlessness, but Arthur nods.

“You want to see the city? Or do you have a flight to catch.”

Eames hears _stay_ , and says, “Dependable mode of transportation, flight, you can catch a plane any time, going anywhere. Don’t forget, pet, we’ll always have Paris.”

“Fuck Paris, Bogart.”

They stay for two days, somewhat platonically sharing a bed with Eames’s jokingly wandering hands and Arthur’s glacially cold feet because the heat goes out again in the flat. They walk the streets, tearing down and building up the city as they see fit. Arthur lets Eames get him drunk at a pub with a working fireplace and they sit too close to the fire, sweating and drinking, Arthur laughing as Eames tells him his thief stories from London and Eames is lightheaded with the rush of making Arthur laugh.

Arthur says his name over and over as they drink, then once more before they fall asleep on the uncomfortable couch at the flat, exhausted by the alcohol.

But he doesn’t kiss Eames again.

The plane takes off for Copenhagen, Eames staring out the window at the architecture of the ground, Arthur warm next to him, hung over and scowling.

-

“Bugger.”

“Eames,” Arthur says.

“Arthur.”

The elevator dings and they step inside, a frightening contraption with burnished gold and mirrors. Arthur makes a small noise of disappointment, says, “You’re forging an American.”

“Too right I am,” Eames replies in a Midwestern slide wonderfully rendered, but Arthur’s too annoyed to give him credit.

“You can’t say ‘bugger’ then.”

“Bugger,” Eames says again, British from head to toe.

“You _know better_. You’ve never had an issue with Britishisms or—“

“Stop worrying or you’ll make me worry.”

Arthur watches him for a moment, Eames shifting his weight like a fighter, hand out in a gesture, _just trust me_.

“This is bad enough already.”

They were inexplicably dropped on the sixth floor of the hotel with the rest of the team nowhere in sight instead of in the lobby where they should’ve been. The elevator is slow and Arthur curses Carmody under his breath, this architecture is beyond even what Eames would call tasteful.

Eames is distracted by the mirrors, his clothing changing, melting into different fabrics until he’s manufactured a suit jacket almost like Arthur’s and when he turns to Arthur, he’s not Eames, he’s the mark’s cousin George, tall and square, slim black glasses, skinny tie, dark-wash jeans, black sneakers.

He’s not Eames and Arthur’s seen him do this before, it’s always incredible, imagination held tight and controlled as if Eames never quite grew up, still a child creating lies and stories to get himself out of the trouble he got himself into with that imagination in the first place.

Arthur’s seen him do this countless times, but suddenly, he _misses_ Eames. It’s a stupid thing, honestly; Eames hasn’t gone anywhere, he logically knows this man next to him is still Eames.

His fingers tighten on the cold gold rail. This isn’t the first time he’s had this surge of loss, of loneliness just because Eames has switched into a forge. But like the days when the world hangs wrong at all the angles, he worries Eames will lose himself, all these splinters stuck inside him somewhere.

He’s worried about that since he first met Eames.

He knows Eames, one of the few people Arthur actually knows in the world and _trusts_ ; he knows Eames and he wants to know _more_.

Copenhagen was three months ago and they haven’t separated since, trundling around Europe, taking a stupidly simple job in Lisbon, then heading to Toledo to study the swords and _puertas_ , to sit in the sun as Eames ate marzipan.

And again, Arthur wanted to burn down the world.

The spread infinity of reflections shows Eames as Eames, staring at Arthur carefully. He puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, thumb rubbing under his collar, against the silk of his tie.

“Arthur, this isn’t that difficult. She’s in the casino, she’ll gamble, she’ll bet more than she can afford, and she’ll cry on Cousin George’s shoulder—“

“Then why are you slipping?”

A quick shadow over his face, the forge’s eyes changing from brown to blue, his hair lightening to blonde, and Arthur realizes Eames is anxious about _him_. Then there’s good ol’ Cousin George again and the American accent is mumbling, “I miss that marzipan.”

The elevator dings to let them out at the lobby floor and the hotel is even worse than Arthur imagined, done in rich reds and golds with dark paneling and horrible lighting, as if a medieval decorator went mad and decided it was a cathedral instead of a hotel with attached casino.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and Eames sighs hard between his teeth.

“This environment isn’t exactly conducive to concentration,” Eames says in defense. “We’re never working with that arse Carmody again.”

 _We_.

The projections are milling around the lobby, reading papers and checking in at the desk and a child is holding a balloon, but Arthur is focused on the _we_.

The two of them against the world and maybe he’ll help Eames take it over. He hears Ariadne in his head say, Fire always works. If you’re at the epicenter of the explosion.

Eames isn’t looking at him, Cousin George trying to distance himself from Arthur as he surreptitiously glances about for the rest of the team, Carmody and Falk. Just like that, Falk appears, the thin-nosed jackass dressed as a pit boss, ready to accuse poor little rich girl Sissy Cybel and her cousin of cheating the house.

To Arthur’s utter suspicion, it all goes according to plan, like Eames said. The dominos fall in place, Eames’s accent doesn’t stray, and the exits are open to Arthur when he needs them to be.

No shooting, no armed guards, Arthur even has time to read the paper, play some roulette. He always bets on red.

It’s very dull.

Towards the end, Sissy has cried off her makeup, told Falk what he wants to know, and when he hauls them both to the front desk, calling for security to help them pack their fucking bags and leave the fucking hotel, Eames squirms out of Sissy’s clutches and disappears to the elevator.

The music hasn’t started yet.

So Arthur trails him.

In the mirrors, Eames grins lopsided and says, “Going up?”

Arthur doesn’t look at what button he punches, he simply watches Eames slip-change back into himself. He loses the glasses, but keeps the clothes and Arthur smiles.

“I knew you had some sartorial taste hidden away in your psyche somewhere.”

“No, this is a dream, Arthur. A fantasy,” Eames replies, biting his lip as he loosens the tie.

“Whose.”

“Yours.” Winking, Eames touches a mirror and it shatters and the elevator doors open. He says, “Don’t just stand there, darling, we’ve got a flying lesson.”

The door is stamped ROOF ACCESS and Arthur shouldn’t be surprised, so he leads the way, shoving it open, out onto the roof. The pool is up here, because Carmody somehow connects the medieval dungeon below with a Vegas pool above, complete with small cabanas, tropical foliage, and projections lounging like lizards.

“Never again,” Eames mutters.

He wraps fingers around Arthur’s wrist, giving a little tug over to the glass partition keeping them from the edge and the pull of gravity.

“Do you want to fall or jump?” Arthur says, feeling breathless, especially when Eames glances at him, blue eyes excited because really, Eames has never grown up.

“Give us a kiss,” Eames says. “For luck.” He grins like they’ve _won_ something instead of stealing it, and he doesn’t wait, taking the kiss from Arthur, heavy and celebratory, but Arthur kisses back, he’s a thief who can steal from another thief and win, then Eames laughs, breaking the kiss. He shoots the glass, ignoring the startled screams of the half-naked projections.

Arthur grabs him by the knot of his tie and as they walk off the edge, he stares at Eames, Eames watching the sky, Eames the bright point of the universe streaking to the ground with him like a comet.

He thinks, We.

-

Somehow, they’re in Buenos Aires. Randomly, Eames wants to go to back to London and stay put for a while, a few weeks at the least.

They’re in South America ahead of the rest of the team, a week early because they had time to kill and why not. A tiny rented flat, so small they keep bumping into each other, but he and Arthur have their own bedrooms and he wanders into Arthur’s, leans against the doorjamb.

Arthur’s lost in a sea of colorful blankets.

“Arthur.”

“Fuck off,” Arthur says.

“You fuck off,” Eames replies, delighted. “You’re so charming in the morning, love. So, pleasantries exchanged, how about a coffee.”

“Sleep, then coffee.”

“Arthur, darling, you _are_ sleeping.”

“No, I’m fucking talking to you, Eames, is what I’m doing,” Arthur says, disgruntled in his pillows.

Eames grins, feeling around for Arthur’s feet before he sits on them. “Yes, yes, you bloody well are.”

Arthur kicks at him and mutters, “Either get up here or get out.”

“Beg pardon?”

A sound like Arthur’s teeth snapping together. “Get up here or get out.”

He isn’t sure what that means exactly, but he flops down next to Arthur, the mattress bouncing and Arthur grunts, pulling at the blankets underneath him in a sleepy uncoordinated fashion until Eames understands Arthur wants him to get under the covers.

“Ah,” he says, “Arthur—“ because his heart can’t take much more, this is a chase, no doubt about it, and some day it might kill Eames, like it does over and over in the dreams, it’s a twisted romance, it’s just that Eames doesn’t like to die from anyone’s hand but Arthur’s.

He needs to go back to London. He needs to go home.

“Shut up, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, stale breath across his throat, an arm easing over his chest, the point of Arthur’s nose pressed against his side. He gets his fingers in Arthur’s hair, dark strands in his hand; he’s a tactile person, he likes experiencing the world by feeling it and with Arthur, it’s a compulsion: if he’s touching Arthur, then at least something’s real.

Arthur shifts him a little, frustrated, and Eames laughs as he lets Arthur turn him how he wants. “If you were anyone else, I’d have shot you by now.”

“If you were with anyone else, I would’ve shot them by now,” Arthur says, words slurred with sleep.

Eames is in so much trouble. He looks at the ceiling and listens to Arthur breathe.

When he wakes, Arthur is staring at him and he says, “Creepy, love. You should’ve woken me, I’m much more fun when I’m awake, then we could—“

And Arthur’s kissing him, hard, tongue brushing his lips as he insists, “You said ‘we.’ _You keep saying ‘we.’_ ” He’s pulling Eames close, hands greedy and demanding, and Eames gives in, he gives in, a thought shooting through his head, It’s always you and me.

He says, “It’s always you and me.”

“You and me, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies against his throat, fingers on the waistband of Eames’s jeans, finding the fly, and Eames slips palms under Arthur’s t-shirt, stretches of sleep-hot skin, Arthur’s teeth against his pulse as they crush together.

Lithe strength pushing Eames onto his back, Arthur crawling on top of him, layering long lines along all of Eames’s angles and Eames might pass out. Arthur makes a noise into the kiss, a laugh, thumb on Eames’s cheekbone as Eames presses on Arthur’s hip.

His poker chip is in the other room, Arthur’s die on the little table next to the bed, but Eames knows this is reality because Arthur says, “Eames, Eames, stay with me,” dragging him in with another long kiss, shedding his shirt to tug at the hem of Eames’s.

A screech of tires on the street below, car doors slamming, nothing new, but then there’s furtive running footsteps in the stairwell, climbing towards them.

The click of an automatic weapon, then another and Eames stills, mouth wet on Arthur’s forehead, Arthur’s fingers digging into his biceps.

In the hall, a voice asks, “Dead or alive?” in a careful whisper, the Spanish dialect coming through easy and thick, and Arthur breathes into the pillow, “Five.”

Eames agrees, “Five,” his pulse speeding as another voice cusses and says, “Dead.”

He has to get Arthur out, _Arthur has to get out_ , they’re rolling separate ways, Arthur grabbing his gun, silencer attached, and he tosses another to Eames, then the door of their flat is kicked in, a burst of splinters, five black-dressed men flood in to the tiny space.

It’s a thing of visceral beauty, watching Arthur fight, his military training taking over, all quick grace and muscle memory and his body is fluid, adapting quickly, taking punches, giving back threefold. He shoots one guy in the leg and gets another onto the ground in a hard scuffle before knocking him sideways with a heavy book, then bringing it down on the nape of the man’s neck, Eames hearing the _crack_ of his spine. He finishes the wounded one with the guy’s own knife.

Eames is fighting two at once, trying to draw them away from Arthur, and he dispatches them, one with a bullet, one with a knife, his chest burning from a kick, his knee twisted a little, bruises throbbing along his arms, this is bullshit he doesn’t need.

The fifth is waiting, as if he’s confident he can get rid of them both on his own.

Arthur stabs him in the belly and Eames breaks his neck.

Silencers all around, the few stray bullets gone into the walls or ceiling and they’re on the top floor, maybe people will think they had very enthusiastic sex, and Eames smirks, Arthur rubbing at a bruise blooming around his eye, his other hand curled around his gun.

“Raphael sold us out, Eames,” Arthur says, tone black and furious.

“What, how do you—“

“Because his name is fucking _Raphael!_ ”

Eames is trying not to laugh, all surging adrenaline, the colors in his vision shaking, Arthur sounds so young and _adamant_ , Eames is gasping, “Arthur, Arthur, it’s just his name, Arthur—”

“We have to go,” Arthur says abruptly, and his gaze is so sad and honest, Eames doesn’t know what to say.

He nods, sliding an arm around Arthur’s waist; they’re bruised but not beaten, their kiss a little pained and Eames tastes blood.

They pack, it’s simple, they only travel light, only the important things going into a bag for each of them, stepping and around over the dead kill squad. The flat is so tiny, but they don’t bump into each other now.

Eames says, “Distraction.”

Arthur says, “Fire always works.”

“Fucking hell, darling, you had me at ‘fire.’”

They’re on the top floor, they set the fire in one corner, using the murder weapon book Arthur wielded earlier; Eames grabs Arthur’s hand, Arthur tangles their fingers and they watch the flames spread. Then they run down the stairs, hammering on doors, yelling in Spanish.

On the street, they separate, Eames seeing Arthur’s dark eyes in his mind even after Arthur’s disappeared in a taxi.

An hour later, he spots Arthur again at the airport, his expression blank, gaze washing over Eames; he’s headed to a different gate, a different city, a different country.

He doesn’t know how long it will be before he can see Arthur again. They don’t rendezvous because they’ve never picked a fallback point; they usually disband and play ghosts, floating over the known world.

On a fake leather chair that’s quickly becoming uncomfortable, he texts Yusuf and Ariadne to cancel the job in Buenos Aires, to make sure they don’t leave wherever they are.

The plane takes off and Eames thinks, We.

He tracks Arthur to São Paulo, then to Mexico City, then into the States where the point man vanishes completely.

He stares at himself in an airport bathroom mirror and tells himself not to worry; Arthur’s a big boy, in some ways, he’s more dangerous than Eames is.

Four countries later, he sits on a semi-expensive bed in a semi-expensive hotel room and thinks the hit squad was after him, not Arthur, because Argentina doesn’t love Eames; they would’ve killed Arthur, collateral damage.

It’s a hazard of the business and Arthur would shoot Eames himself for making a stupidly noble gesture to keep Arthur safe, so he can’t, he can’t, Arthur will kill whomever he has to keep Eames safe as well.

Somehow Eames knows this as fact.

Arthur’s forever been able to track him a lot better than Eames can track Arthur and he used to think, Annoying little shit, but in this instance, it’s key, it’s important, _useful_ , like that one time Eames was taken by Russian gun runners.

Making calls, running down contacts draws unwanted attention.

Now he has to _wait_.

He shouldn’t go home, but he does: he goes home to London. A new hit squad could follow him there, but Eames welcomes it, if they’ll come to fight, he’ll take them out with a smile on his face. They’ll be after him instead of Arthur and he loves a good fight.

But it’s been a month, a quiet month of traveling, not staying anywhere longer than three days. A month of radio silence and fuck the sexual frustration (ha, Eames, _ha_ ), he cares more about the silence and how he can’t sleep because Arthur isn’t there.

Anyone come to kill him would meet a bitter man ready to take his vengeance and send the poor unlucky bastards to meet their maker.

He lands in London, gets a taxi, unlocks his door, dropping his bag right at his feet. He doesn’t give a shit, he is jet-lagged and he doesn’t even want to eat or shower. Just sleep, sleep on into another day of silence.

Arthur is in his bed.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Eames says, not hiding his surprise, his bad knee twisting a little.

“Fuck off.”

“You fuck off.”

“Shut up. Get over here. Sleep. I’m jet-lagged,” Arthur mumbles.

“You broke into my flat.”

“I probably drooled on your pillow.”

“Oh, disgusting, darling.”

But he strips faster than he thought possible as Arthur pulls back the blankets, all sleepy uncoordination. They settle, Arthur’s glacially cold feet and Eames’s wandering hands.

Arthur says, “ _Eames_ ,” on a big breath, as if he needs Eames’s scent and Eames falls asleep with Arthur’s fingers in his hair.

-

They’re in a warehouse and the sunlight is way too fucking bright.

Yusuf has a new concoction for testing; with his unholy scientist glee, he alleges it will make dreams sharper and architecture easier to hold. Arthur is set to test it and Ariadne puts aside her notebooks to prepare, but the point man says, “I want to build, if you have something else you need to do.”

Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t say anything, just nods, giving him a smile. “It’s your party.”

“I intend to join him,” Eames says. “A man partying alone is simply pathetic. Or asking for a jail sentence.” He smirks and Arthur matches it and Ariadne makes a shooing motion.

“You boys have fun.”

“Boys?” Arthur says with a glare.

“I’ll have you know, young one, we are men,” Eames says expansively.

“Men is what we are.”

“And how.”

Yusuf clears his throat overly-loudly. “Brigands, begin.”

“Brigands!” Eames declares with a laugh, excited, but Yusuf pushes the button and they fall under.

The details are splinter sharp, the colors rich and vibrant, “you and your damn love of colors,” Arthur says and Eames raises his arms, “I am an _artiste_.”

“Brigand.”

“Yes, that too.”

Here in the dream, Eames is wearing jeans and a hoodie, the hood pulled over his head, like when they first met, and Arthur matches him for this too, torn jeans, hoodie, but he doesn’t use the hood, he needs to see the sky.

Eames says, “After you, pet.”

Arthur builds, dark shapes rising out of the ground to put the sky in a grid and Eames points, “London, Paris, Chicago, Los Angeles, Hong Kong, Kuala Lumpur, Dubai…” Old architecture to new and the sunlight is fucking bright here too.

A city all around them, the projections headed to imaginary places.

They walk the streets, traffic avoiding them as Eames balances along the yellow line down the center. Arthur puts in stairs for Eames, paradoxical, and Eames’s clothes change as he walks, he becomes the fighter he was when Arthur met him, sneakers, sweats, hands in wraps, even a bruise around his eye under the shadow of the hood; I’m a thief first, forger second, he’d said to Arthur, his accent heavy, eyes confident, with a cocky smile. But I like to fight too.

In response, Arthur lets his clothes slide into a suit, and Eames stares at him, almost stepping off the edge of the paradox.

“You never told me why you like to fight,” Arthur says.

Eames jumps down, landing in a crouch. “Body movement. Physicality. Feeling every part of you respond like you want, when you want. Like being a thief.”

“Or a forger.”

“Maybe I just like beating people with my bare hands.”

“A sociopathic gift from the military.”

“They are ever so generous. Why, do you want to fight me?”

They’ve been fighting together for such a long time, with each other and against each other, and Arthur says, “Two times is the start of a pattern, three times creates a habit.”

“Are you suggesting we have a habit?”

Arthur’s eyes are dark in his face as he says, “You keep saying ‘we.’”

“So I fucking do,” Eames agrees. Arthur grabs him, holding onto his soft hoodie like he might be dragged away and Eames sets about messing up Arthur’s lines, tossing away the jacket, untucking his shirt, he kisses Arthur as he breaks the knot of the tie.

The projections are turning restless, their energy shifting aware and irritated, so Arthur says into the kiss, “I built this city. I want you to tear it down.”

Grinning, Eames stares down the canyon of the streets, his clothes melting under Arthur’s hands into what he wears now, rust-colored trousers, a green-patterned shirt, short sleeves showing the edge of his tattoos; he hums, _we built this city on rock and roll_.

“Domino pattern?” he asks, calculating.

“You’ll just have to see.”

The projections are watching Arthur like prey, so Eames says, “Guess we better get started.”

Incendiary ordnance, lots of it, and they break into the ground floors of the buildings, dreaming up big guns, as if they’re robbing banks, “best dressed criminals,” Eames says, and Arthur scowls as they plant bombs like wildflowers.

They tag eight buildings, four on each side of the street, the projections starting to buzz in alarm and anger, and Eames holds the detonator, “Let’s see how well this works.”

Yusuf would be pleased; blowing up certain buildings and leaving others to see how well the architectural construct holds is a test the scientist in him would love. But this is for Arthur and Eames, this is their world to destroy as they see fit, this is their writing in the sky.

“Buggering fuck, we should’ve used a tank,” Eames says, thumb sliding over the detonator button.

Arthur smiles, big with dimples, “nothing is ever discreet with you, is it,” and Eames pulls him close into a movie hero clinch, a kiss for the silver screen, open-mouthed and heavy.

Eames pushes the button with Arthur’s lips on his jaw. They watch everything tumble down in a rush of flames and dust and the projections are stirring, coming for them.

“Are you ready?” Arthur says as Eames shoots a projection that gets a little too close, then a second, then a third. The dream looks like an apocalyptic nightmare, the clouds need to be raining blood and ash, there’s a searing orange fireball in the distance, a delayed explosion from a slow fuse. The paradoxical stairs crumple like a drawing.

“Ready for what.”

In the space of their bodies, Arthur’s holding a grenade. They’ll be ground zero of their own concussive blast.

“I didn’t think you were the romantic type, Arthur,” Eames says, smarmy. “You got me a ring.”

“No, it’s a dream, Eames, it’s a fantasy.”

“Whose.”

“Yours.”

He pushes his mouth onto Eames’s and takes like the thief he is first, point man second and Eames steals from him too, a thief after Arthur’s own heart.

“I want to keep you,” Arthur admits, as if he should be shameful about it, but Eames laughs, as if they should be shameless.

“You’re so organized, love. A place for everything and everything in its place?”

“Precisely, Mr. Eames.”

“I don’t want to disappoint your organizational demands, so as long as you don’t misfile me somewhere—”

It’s a dream; time slows as Eames pulls the pin, Arthur lets go and the grenade falls between them before detonating.

The blast is bright, they shatter-burn-die instantaneously. The blast is bright, but it’s just the sun in the warehouse, too fucking bright.

When Eames opens his eyes, Arthur is laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> "New York, New York." "We Built This City." Title/opening line/prompt from Stars, but the quote is old; I cannot pin down a proper reference. Also, Macbeth and Casablanca.
> 
> If you'd like, you can leave a comment at my LJ, [here](http://bashfulbetty.livejournal.com/4134.html).


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